


Let Me Take You Far Away

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Established Relationship, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mentions of Necrophilia, Top Dean, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4225320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 10.  It's exactly what they need.  A vacation.  That's how Dean can make everything else go away.  Cas was right.  That's all they need.  A nice, little vacation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Take You Far Away

It’s Sam’s ribs that raise the issue at first. Straining against his sides, and so perfectly delineated that Dean can easily count them every time he shifts back against the tiled wall or reaches up to adjust the shower head. Too easily. Not quite as bad as he got during the trials, but close enough that it sends an uncomfortably familiar twinge through Dean’s chest. Hell, he’s surprised he isn’t able to read the Enochian, the way his skin is wrapped so tight around the bone.

Dean doesn’t even mean to speak up when he does, but the words fly from his lips anyway. “You look like shit, kid.” 

Sam pauses in his grab for the shampoo to raise a sarcastic eyebrow at him. “Gee, thanks,” he says flatly—and Dean takes a moment to wonder if maybe the deep shadows cut along his sides and under his eyes and across his cheekbones are due to the cheap, fluorescent lighting of the Men of Letters’ shower bank.

But it isn’t just Sam’s ribs. His hair looks like it’s been lopped off at the most convenient angle too. One straight line, right at the curve of his jaw. Like he’d taken a straight razor and just slashed at it. Sick of dealing with it. Or maybe just doing his best when he’s never had to cut it on his own before. Dean’s guilt flares up again and he flips the subject back to safer ground. “What’ve you been eating?”

His brother fiddles with the bottle in his hands as he tries to avoid his eyes. “Coffee, mostly. Whiskey.” He clicks the cap open and closed a few times. “Sometimes cereal.”

Dean frowns. “There ain’t a single box of cereal in the whole kitchen. I checked this morning.”

“I said ‘sometimes’,” Sam replies dully.

And that’s how the other shoe comes crashing down. “ _Dammit_ , Sam,” Dean says sharply, slicking the inconvenient mop of too much hair away from his own forehead. “You can’t fucking do that shit.” It happens on-and-off with his brother, this fucked-up little coping mechanism of his that pops up once in a rare while. And it pisses Dean right the fuck off every single time Sam thinks he can slip it by him. After their dad’s death, he’d spent _days_ not eating anything before Dean was able to get his shit together enough to actually notice anything amiss. “You promised me that you wouldn’t pull that crap anymore.”

“You weren’t here,” Sam whispers under his breath, eyes on the shower drain. He may as well have shouted it, the way it hits him. Dean goes motionless at the accusation—water sluicing over the ridiculous length of his own hair, clumping together in little tendrils to go dripping down the sides of his temples—and Sam’s shoulders droop under the oppressive silence. Like _he’s_ the one who should feel bad about how the last few weeks have gone down. “…It’s not like I was doing it on purpose, Dean,” he says eventually. “I just figured that tracking you down was more important than going on a freaking grocery run.” He tilts his head back up, finding his backbone and looking him square in the eyes. Daring Dean to fight him on this.

It mostly just makes Dean want to drink the water running down his brother’s long throat. “Ever?” he asks quietly.

Sam glares at him sullenly. It still doesn’t stop Dean from wanting to put his hands all over him. “Look, I’m not dead, okay? I eat.”

“Yeah, whatever, Sam,” he breathes. Sam doesn’t quite apologize. But Dean doesn’t quite apologize either. So, even-stevens and all that. They both go back to focusing on their individual showering routines, and Dean takes a moment to mentally scoff at how they managed to get so far away from the whole point of sharing the bank in the first place. Sam hadn’t wanted him out of his sight after everything that had happened, and to be honest, Dean wasn’t feeling too interested in flying solo himself. But it’s still awkward somehow. Between them. It’s gonna be awkward until they fuck. Maybe they should have bitten the bullet last night.

He’d found Sam in his own room. Hours after he’d brought him the first meal Dean had actually _needed_ to eat in weeks. Hours after the clumsy, stilted attempt at a normal conversation. His brother had been sitting at that dumb little side desk jammed up against the cement wall that could barely fit the both of them. His knees all tucked up and uncomfortable as he was doing his best to upend an entire bottle of Maker’s down his throat.

Dean had joined him silently. Sat down on the other side of that stupidly miniature table and offered to split the cirrhosis. Sam had tried to pour a glass for him, but his off hand was useless around the heavy bottle, tipping it too far, whiskey sloshing out over the rim and onto the table.  _“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up.”_ Hasty apologies spilling from his lips, broken and distraught. _“You don’t have to leave. I’ll clean it up. I promise, I’ll—”_

 _“Sam, shut up. It doesn’t— Sam. Sam! Stop it. Can I—? Can I touch you? God, Sammy. **Please**. Please say yes. Sam, please.”_  And then the crying. An awkward left hand reaching out to tangle long fingers around any bit of Dean they could reach. Tears drenching the collar of his t-shirt. He’s sure a few of his own had made it into Sam’s lank, unwashed hair.

A frantic mantra whispered against every bit of his brother his lips could reach.  _“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.”_  Desperately reaching for a kiss.

 _“No. Dean, you don’t have to. I’m gross. I’m so gross right now.”_  And Dean had wiped away the snot and the tears with the hem of his shirt until Sam had laughed through his sobs. He’d tasted like salt still. But it didn’t burn.

They hadn’t fucked though. Couldn’t have—wrecked and exhausted as they both were. Dean’s not sure he’d have been able to get it up without a fucking bucket load of Viagra. Maybe not even then.

He doubts he would have wanted to.

But Sam had curled up around Dean’s heartbeat—best as he could with the bum shoulder, at least—and had fallen asleep so suddenly and so deeply that Dean was terrified to ask how much he’d been getting on his own. If any.

He’d been gone six fucking weeks.

Dean flicks his gaze back to where Sam is trying to lather up his hair. His bad arm awkwardly bent up in front of him, fingers wrapped around his own waist as he rests his elbow against the bone of his hip. Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s fully pressed up along his brother’s back. Hands slipping over acres of warm, wet skin to wrap around Sam and pull him tight against his chest.

“Dean,” he whispers as he goes still. And it rings through his heart like church bells.

It’s too hot in here—clammy body heat on top of the already-steaming water pressure—but Sam doesn’t move away. Just leans back into every bit of contact he can soak up. Given an inch and taking ten miles. And who could fucking blame him? Dean drags his lips across the too-distinct bone of his brother’s shoulders, worshipping every bit of skin he can get at, until a stream of suds gets in his mouth and he’s forced to spit out the bitter mess to the background of Sam’s amusement.

“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up,” he says fondly. But the moment’s broken. He reaches up to scrub at his brother’s hair for him instead. Only dunking his face under the stream of the shower when it’s really funny.

Sam splutters for a little bit under the water, but comes up laughing. “Dean, you know you don’t have to do this for me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean asks. “How’s your shoulder?” The stubborn silence he gets in response is all he needs. “Yeah, exactly,” he adds with a teasing nudge. “That’s what I thought.” And Sam doesn’t have anything else to say in his own defense, so Dean slips his right hand between his brother’s stomach and arm. Tilts his palm up. Laces their fingers together and gives Sam his own forearm to rest his weight against. It’s a little clumsy from that point on—one left arm each for them to try and wrestle the mess on Sam’s head into submission—but his brother’s hand feels good in his own, surprisingly enough. Feels like it belongs there—

_Belongs like the wood did. Perfect grip. Heavy head. Man, they sure did steel nice in the 50s. Beautiful fucking arc on this one, guaranteed. Brutal fucking swing. Roque. Stroke—_

“Dean?”

 _“What?”_ he asks sharply, wrenching himself back to the present.

Sam blinks at the unexpected intensity, head twisted back to try and figure out why Dean had checked out so suddenly. “Uh…you alright?”

Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times. “What? Yeah.” Then he clears his throat and slips his hand back down from Sam’s nape. Letting his fingers rest on the broad spread of his brother’s upper back as Sam rinses his hair out. “Hey, Sam?” Dean asks after a second, voice a little rusty. A half-hearted hum is all he gets in reply. “Whaddya think about maybe taking a vacation?”

Sam lets out a derisive snort and squeezes their fingers together. Dean doesn’t budge though, and Sam slips around to face him once he realizes it isn’t a joke. “Dude. Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Dean says defensively. “Why not?”

His brother just gives him a look. “Uh, ‘cause the last time we went on an actual vacation together, I think I was like eleven?” His eyes flick up and to the side as he goes over the old memory. “And it lasted all of one day.”

“Well, Dad’s not here this time,” Dean says, running his knuckles over the centerline of Sam’s abs. Trailing the wet line of hair leading down to his groin. “Just you and me.”

“Really?”

Dean rolls his eyes at the sound of disbelief. “ _Yes_. Cas says it’s all quiet on the Western Front. So…” He sniffs and shrugs one shoulder. “Was his idea, actually.”

By the time he gathers himself enough to look back up, Sam is grinning from ear-to-ear. “Really?” Oh. Not disbelief. _Excitement_.

“Yeah, really,” he says. Answering his brother with his best attempt at a matching smile of his own. Let Sam think he just wants to get out for a while. Spend some quality time. He keeps his expression from wavering until Sam is clinging to him, forehead nudged in against his temple. Doesn’t want him to realize what this is really about. That if Dean has to see that _door_. See what he did to it. With his own goddamn hands. If he has to step one more foot along these hallways, along _that_ hallway—

_A violent gash gouged out of the stucco, exactly three inches above head height. Plaster crumbling from the wall. **Roque.**  Not quite fast enough. Better luck next time. He won’t miss twice. Glint of a useless blade at his neck. And won’t that be funny once he figures it out. “Do it. It’s all you.” **Stroke—**_

A vacation. Yeah. That’s—that’s what they need. A nice, relaxing vacation.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They’re out of there before noon. He doesn’t even give Sam time to pack, just grabs both of their go bags and tosses them in Baby’s trunk. Should be enough to keep them going for a few weeks, at least. And it’s not like there ain’t plenty of Laundromats on the road. They got by fine before the bunker came along. Their awesome fucking bunker that Dean loves with every bit of his heart. He doesn’t want to set foot in it for a good month. Doesn’t even wanna _think_ about it. About any of it. Could’ve ended up being Sam’s goddamn tomb. His own personal mousetrap. _Guess who the cat was._

They’re off the road just before nightfall. Passed straight on through Nebraska, ‘cause it’s fucking _Nebraska_ , and wound up in the bottom corner of Wyoming, right on the edge of Laramie. They’re not staying here for long though. Just a stopover until Dean can get his car legs back. He’s gonna drive Sam up to the base of the mountains. Take in a river or two. Water. Dean wants to see water.

The _Gas Lite_ motel welcomes them with all the bustle Dean has become accustomed to from a lifetime of themed atrocities. This one barely even makes sense though. Bright, avocado-green walls and a shitty painting of a wagon framed up over the room’s single bed. A _king_ bed. And Sam’s eyes had gone all soft once he’d seen it. It was so heartening that Dean didn’t even attempt to pull out some kind of ‘only room they had left’ bullshit. Why not let his brother be happy for once in his goddamn life? Let Sam have something good without him ruining it. Kid fucking deserves it.

The room’s table is too small for eating, so Dean orders take-out from the closest to-go sandwich place, and they have a surprisingly cozy dinner over the bed’s way-too-floral comforter. Knocking knees every time one of them shifts and spilling mustard in inconvenient places and very-deliberately not talking about anything important.

Dean is working through his second beer of the night when he catches his brother wrapping up the last half of his meal out of the corner of his eye. “Finish your sandwich, Sam,” he tosses out casually.

Sam just rolls his eyes at him. “I’m full, dude,” he says, paper still crinkling under his fingers. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Eat. Your fucking.  _Sandwich_.” Sam blinks at him in surprise, completely taken-aback by the venom in his voice, and their gazes lock over the stupid rose-printed bedspread. “Now,” Dean adds coolly. Sam doesn’t say anything, but his hand sneaks back over to dutifully unwrap the crumpled paper.

He takes another pull from his beer and tries not to hate himself for his brother’s silent, submissive obedience. Too easy and too reserved. Like Sam’s afraid of him. Afraid of what he’ll do. Some fucking vacation this is starting out to be. ‘Ike & Tina: Live on the Road.’ Dean lets out a bitter scoff. Sam would probably be safer traveling with a scorpion.

Crowley might have been right after all. That stupid accent echoes through his head again, cutting in deep. _“Crazy ones. They’re good for a fling, but they’re not relationship material.”_

And y’know what? Maybe it’s true. Story of his fucking life. After all, Cassie had tossed him out on his ass the first time he’d tried it. Thought he was nuts. Raving about monsters to try and explain why he couldn’t stay. Sent him away the second time too. Even after everything. Smart. Kicked him to the curb before he could drag her down into the shit with him. Lisa wasn’t so lucky. Should have turned him away at her door.  _She did._  Shoulda done it sooner. Before he could destroy her life—her’s _and_ Ben’s. Razed and salted it behind him too. War of fucking attrition.

And now…?

Dean drains the rest of his drink in one go and watches Sam pick at the crust of his bread, and can’t quite hold back the amused huff of air at the kid’s weirdo habits. Love of his fucking life. Turned out to be his goddamn brother. Who’d have thought? Dean idly wonders if that makes this a honeymoon. Although, he’s pretty sure honeymoons are supposed to involve a lot more sex. Aren’t they? Not like he’d be the one to know. Nah, there’s never been anyone else for him. Not really. He lets himself smile. Not even close.

 _Y’know…except for the last few weeks._  String of faceless girls, one after another. Taking time out from fighting to fuck, and vice-versa. Dive bars and roadhouses and endless stretches of highway. Blood and booze and pussy on his fingers he wouldn’t even wash before going three deep into the next girl. Or beating some sorry loser’s head in.  _You’re welcome. Closest you’ll ever come to getting laid. No need to thank me._

Lester, the fucking creepo with the secretary on the side and the hard-on for watching his wife get smoked. Stupid pseudo-science drilling holes into Dean’s head and whispering warped delusions into his ears. _“It’s different when guys do it. Men aren’t built for monogamy, because of evolution. We—we’re programmed, y’know, t-to spread our seed.”_

Although, who knows? Maybe he was right. Maybe it _is_ evolution. Dean had sure as hell been spreading enough of his fucking seed. The stripper from Maryville, red eyes and smeared mascara. The check-out clerk with the C-section scar in Portage. Then that cocktail waitress up in Beulah—whatever her name was. The too-thin blonde with the asshole ex. Ann-something?  _Jesus fucking Christ_. He doesn’t even remember her name. Other than the one he’d _given_ her, that is. She’d let him fuck her and he’d treated her like a whore for it. Like every other drunk, violent, poor-excuse-for-a-grown-man Dean used to mentally spit on whenever they crossed paths.

He lets himself linger on the lesser offenses. Flagellates himself for every undeserved beating and repulsive slur. Keeps his guilt focused on the minutiae so his mind doesn’t drift over to the real horror. Can’t let himself remember— _Wooden grip in his hand. Fits like a glove, like it belongs there. Just as steady and sure as when he was nailing up the support struts for the weapons in his bedroom. For the display. So he could have something to be proud of. His best sawed-off. The cleanest machete from the trunk. His axe from Purgatory. Dean chuckles a little. Could’ve used that one. Doesn’t need it though. Cleaver’s no good, either. All sharp, clean slices from that beauty. Heavy, decisive chops—blade sticking into the wood when he uses it to separate rib bones for the grill. Sam had even complimented him that night. A dried skin of barbeque sauce clinging to the corner of his mouth—dark like blood—as he effused over the meal. Dean lets a cold smile slash itself across his face. No. That wouldn’t be any good at all. He twists the hammer in his grip. Claw-side out. Better make it messy—_

 ** _No._**  The _girls._ Think about the girls. Left ravished and brutally-sated when he was in an indulgent mood. Humiliated and teary-eyed when he wasn’t.  _The stripper with the smeared mascara and the red-tinged eyes._  Dean clenches his jaw and doubles down on his self-inflicted castigation. The bouncers and the security guards. Black eyes and broken noses, a collarbone shattered under his fist, just for trying to do their jobs. The junior deputy he’d beaten the shit out of for pulling him over in Paynesville, then strung up and left—tied, upside-down, to a fencepost for hours. Because he’d thought it would be funny when the sheriff found him. The triplets...

 _“Yeah, I know she’s your sister, sweetheart.”_  The edge of his blade sliding down the arch of her graceful throat, bone pressing not-quite-enough-to-bleed into the give of her flesh. _“That’s what makes it good. Trust me.”_  Goddamn _Crowley_ , watching from the darkness with glittering eyes. She’d gone along with it though, a hitched gasp caught in her throat as she silently agreed to let her sister trail down her body. She’d turned her head, too—under his unblinking, steely stare—wrapped trembling, delicate fingers around her other sister’s neck and tugged her down to meet her lips. The wet slide of a pink tongue, peeking between crimson and berry lipstick. A shaky whisper of a moan as the second girl— _first girl?_ —stabbed her tongue into her sister’s wet cunt. He’d been utterly transfixed at the sight. Barely even remembers Crowley slipping off his tie in the dark. A sea of brown hair—not quite the right shade—tangling underneath Dean’s hands as the girls writhed against each other on the bed. Not quite the right shade, but they were _sisters_ and that’s what counted. Soothing the incessant burn of _his_ shadow, lingering around the edges of Dean’s peripheral vision no matter what he did. No matter who he tried to shove into _his_ place. Square peg in a soul-shaped hole.  _Him_. It was always _him_. Whispering in Dean’s ear. Just a blink away. Festering like a cancer.  _Sam._ _Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam SamSamSamSam **samsamsam—**_

“Dean? You’re bleeding, man.”

He jerks out of the dark memories with a short inhale, shocked back into reality at the sound of his brother’s actual voice. Sam is staring at him with worry etched across his brow, and it takes Dean a second too long to follow his eye line down to where he’s crushing his beer bottle in his right fist. Huh. He didn’t even realize. Dean slowly uncurls his fingers and the pieces of amber glass fall away to the floor, taking a few slices of his palm and a healthy amount of blood along with them. Good thing the carpet’s dark. Sam makes a soft noise of sympathy, but he couldn’t care less. It’ll heal. It’ll heal too fast. Too perfect. No scars. Creepy and unnatural, the way his cuts and bruises always do lately.

“Here, let me—”

 _“No!”_ Dean barks, snatching his hand away from his brother’s outstretched grip. And then his heart gives a lopsided, aching throb at the way Sam flinches back from his shouting. Automatic. An ingrained reflex. Like he’s got a hammer in his hand—  _Wooden grip so sweet and right. Claw-side out. Weighted perfectly for a swing. Claw-side’s gotta be out. Make sure it’s out. “C’mon, Sammy! Let’s have a beer, talk about it!” Pull out the little bits of the skull. Let ‘em clatter to the stone flooring. And wouldn’t the Men of Letters just love that? Scalp’s gonna stick. Bits of that pretty brown hair too. Maybe Dean can suck it off the metal. Blood in his mouth. Brain against the wall. Wonder how long he’ll last. How many swings it’ll take—_

Dean frantically wrenches himself away from the violence and the horror. It wasn’t him. Doesn’t count. Wasn’t him. _Yes, it was._  “I got it,” he says, a little softer. “Sorry, I— I got it.” He cradles the bleeding to his chest, his tainted hand well out of his brother’s reach, and pushes off from the bed, taking a step toward the bathroom door.

“Dean, you might need stitches,” Sam tries, voice too small in the aftermath of Dean’s freak-out.

“I don’t.” He swallows hard and takes another step to safety.  _Sam’s safety. Where he can’t hurt him anymore._ “Trust me, I just— I’m just gonna wash it off, okay?”

Sam stares at him for a long beat, then finally gives in with an unconvincing attempt at nonchalance. “Yeah. Just…make sure and get all of the glass, alright?”

“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean throws him a weak smile, then shuts himself into the salmon-tiled bathroom and thrusts his hand under the faucet until the water stops running the same color as the floor. And then another few minutes just for posterity’s sake. Slumping his forehead against the Windex-streaked mirror and not moving away until he’s absolutely certain that the eyes looking back at him are green.

By the time he gets back out, the comforter’s been swept clean, and Dean doesn’t even have the energy to check if Sam actually finished his Turkey Avocado or just used the convenient excuse to toss it. Baby steps. The carpet is spotless too, glass all plucked away, and Sam has pulled up a tiny, wooden chair next to the bed. All hunched up in the seat and tapping his fingernails against his thigh as he waits for Dean to step back out into the room proper.

“All good?” he asks, practically sitting at attention the second he spots him. “How’s the hand?”

Dean gives him a facetious little wave with it as he thumps down onto the bed. “I’ll be rope climbing by tomorrow morning.”

Sam scooches forward a little in his too-small chair, brow knit with emotion and waves of concern radiating from his multicolored eyes. “How’d you even do that, by the way?” Dean just silently stares at his brother until he explains. “The bottle, I mean,” he continues awkwardly. “They’re kinda _sturdy_ , y’know?”

He drops his gaze down to his hand, stretches his fingers out until the slices across his palm start to sting. “Must have got a faulty one,” he answers half-heartedly.

“Right,” Sam says weakly. “Chink in the glass or something.”

Dean’s lips twitch. Not quite a smile. “Yeah. Or something.”

“Or we could be honest with each other.” 

His eyes widen as he lifts his head up, preparing to face his brother’s well-deserved wrath. But Sam doesn’t look pissed. Just a little resigned.

“I figured it out after Gadreel,” he says quietly. “Well, _assumed_ anyway.” Dean curves in on himself a bit, half afraid that Sam wants to retread this old argument again. And _god_ , he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to fight about it anymore. Won’t apologize for doing anything he could to keep his brother alive. Not ever. But Sam seems to guess the slant his thoughts have taken and tosses him a little smile instead. “After we’d captured him, remember? _Finally_ ,” he adds, a shade playfully. Roll of his eyes. “Locked him down in that warehouse? And I left to go look for Cas, ran into Metatron instead, and after I came back…” Sam drops his eyes to his lap, picks at the fingernails of his gimp hand. Messes with his sling a bit. “You’d beaten the shit out of him. He was unconscious. An _angel_ ,” he says, appropriate amount of awe laced into the word. “And you?” He lifts his head again, pierces Dean with his own unwavering stare. “Dean, you didn’t have anything worse than a few bloody knuckles. Your hands should have been _shattered_ , man.”

Dean tosses back a not-quite-smile of his own. No point in hiding it anymore. “Got a few decent shots in with Metatron too.”

Sam swallows hard, the darkness of memory shading his eyes. “Before he…?”

“Yeah.”

His brother holds his gaze for a beat before letting it go, sweeping that entire awful night back under the rug. Where it belongs. “So, you’re kinda like Superman, huh?”

Ha. Yeah, right. _Superman is a good guy._  “Something like that,” he says, quirk of his lips.

Then there’s a long moment of semi-comfortable silence. “Dean?” Sam says eventually. He gets a listless hum in response. “Can I ask you something?” Dean raises his head to find his brother looking at him softly, hint of a knowing smile gracing his expression. “What exactly are we waiting for here?”

And ain’t that the million dollar question? 

“I have no fucking idea,” Dean breathes. He’s up and out of his seat before either of them can get another word out. And then he’s crushing his lips against Sam’s own, kissing him deep and wet, and swallowing all the rest of the sounds trying to escape from his brother’s mouth. _Christ_ , he’s missed this. It’s been so long. So damn long since he could simply touch and feel and taste. Longer even than when he was away. He’d been cut off ever since Gadreel first played his hand, the backstabbing _snake_. All those long months ago. Dean groans into Sam’s mouth, drags his tongue over every inch of soft, wet heat open to him, and tries to make up for lost time. Savoring each needy moan and subtle hitch of breath. Hands everywhere, roaming across his brother’s broad chest, the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, slipping forward again to cup his face. He’s worried about his hand marking up Sam’s perfect skin for half a moment, but it’s already scabbed over enough that there’s no chance of bleeding. More freaky bullshit courtesy of the Mark. So he tightens his grip and pulls him in closer, Sam’s stubble scratching harshly against the raw patch on his palm. It feels like heaven. God, what a laugh.

Sam is pushing him away now, left hand scrabbling with the catch to his sling. So impatient. So fucking beautiful. “Please, _please_ ,” he breathes, clumsily tugging at the nylon when he can’t unlatch the clip. “I can’t— Don’t wanna wait any longer.”

Dean drops his hand over his brother’s restless fingers. Knocks their foreheads together. Catches Sam’s gaze and holds it steady—his best bedroom eyes. “Leave it on.”

He gets to enjoy every second of his brother’s pupils blowing wide at the implication before Sam is throwing his head back with a groan, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his neck. _Because he trusts him. He fucking trusts him. What a goddamn mistake._ “Jesus Christ, Dean.”

Dean gets Sam on his back across the bed, jeans stripped off, and one, two, three fingers in his ass before his brain manages to stutter back on. Squelch of lube. Low, cut-off moan with every twist of his wrist. Music to his ears. Sheen of sweat glistening against the tan hollow of his throat. Twitch of his fingers gets another desperate gasp.

“Dean, _please_.”

Condom. Needs to use a fucking condom because he won’t do that to his brother. His pure, perfect little brother. Won’t taint him like that. He’ll have to stop by a clinic before they leave the state.  _“Hey, Doc. How ‘bout you check for one of everything? Does ‘cheating asshole’ come up on the test results? No, Doc, you don’t understand, it’s different when guys do it. It’s **evolution**.”_

He slips his hand free, Sam’s hole clenching eagerly around nothing as Dean scrounges around in his bag for a rubber. He finally gets his fingers around a square of foil and tears it open with his teeth, tugging his cock out of his pants until he can roll the latex down the throbbing length. Takes a moment to wipe his hand dry on the comforter, then manhandles his brother upright and into his arms. Tugging him away from the bed.

Sam blinks in confusion at the sudden change in position. “Dean, what are you—?” But he breaks off with a choking sound the second Dean slams him up against the wall. Vise-like grip tight around Sam’s thighs as he tenses his arms and _yanks_ , pulling his brother’s entire weight into his arms. Dean’s biceps are bulging with the strain, but it’s manageable—and ain’t that a fucking kick? 

“How’s this for Superman?” he growls.

“Holy shit, Dean,” Sam moans, legs automatically wrapping around his waist as his left hand clutches tighter to Dean’s shoulder. “How—? _Holy shit_.” His eyes roll back in his head, skull knocking against the plaster. Deep, chestnut brown spread out across Discount Paint Shack’s cheapest green.

 _Sammy_. Warm and slicked and ready for him, calves hooked around his lower back as Dean lines them up one-handed. Eager and oh, so willing—pink mouth and flushed cheeks and chest heaving against his own. Perfect. So fucking perfect underneath his hands. Meant to be—

_Meant to be. Fits so sweet. Just like before. Wooden grip so right in his hand—_

Dean claws his fingernails into the memory and violently tears it out of his head. Not now. Not during _this_. Not ever during this.

He catches Sam’s bottom lip between his own and plunges in deep—tongue _and_ cock—pushes past the tight ring of muscle and into the slick softness further in. Shot of liquid quicksilver in his veins. Sweet ecstasy rushing through his blood to the counterpoint of his brother’s strangled moans. He adjusts his grip around Sam’s thighs and presses in more. “Yeah, that’s it,” he purrs. “C’mon, little brother. Wanna hear you.” Thrusts up again—choked-off cry from one of them, he couldn’t tell you who—then pistons his hips faster.  _Harder_. Sinks in deeper. Over and over again.

Sam grits his teeth as Dean fucks him into the drywall. Clenches tight around his aching cock, and Dean’s vision flares white. “Dean, I can’t,” he pants out. Slams his eyelids shut. Grimace of pleasure. “Need you to touch me.” He jams his face into Sam’s neck and tries to _breathe_ until the fog clears enough that he’s able to understand what his brother is talking about. Sam can’t jerk himself off. One hand is too busy clinging to Dean’s shoulders and the other one’s all bent up across his chest, useless and trapped.

“I gotcha,” Dean says. He hefts Sam up higher and shifts most of the weight to his right side. Pins him back with his shoulders and snakes his left hand out to wrap around his brother’s weeping erection. Gets another gorgeous gasp for his efforts. He strips Sam hard, _merciless_ , wrings him out until he’s shuddering. Every muscle locking tight as he digs his fingers into Dean’s arm and catches a moan between his teeth and shoots off all over his own shirt. Spent and shivering. “Hope that sling is machine-washable,” Dean laughs, panting through Sam’s orgasm as he chases his own. His brother just ignores him, drooping in his hold and letting Dean fuck him raw—boneless and pliant—until Dean finally catches up, pulsing into the condom with a long, drawn-out groan. Then he just holds Sam there, up against the wall, arms tight around him and both of them breathing in tandem through the cool-down. At least, until a loud banging from the adjoining room lets them know how unappreciated their little concert had been.

“Yeah, keep it up, asshole!” Dean grouches back. “You’ll get it in stereo!”

Sam chuckles against his temple. “Think I’m gonna need a breather first.”

Yeah, probably. Dean huffs out an amused breath as he cedes the point. His arms are starting to tremble and the zipper of his fly is chafing against the base of his dick. He’s got just enough juice left to carefully slide out of his brother and place him back on his own rubbery legs before the muscles really start to burn. “Think you can walk?” he asks, stripping the condom off and thunking it into the wastebasket. Only partway teasing.

“Fuck you,” is his brother’s very succinct, very mature reply.

“Thought you needed a breather.”

Sam tosses his head back and laughs. For real. First actual smile from him Dean’s seen in days. _Months?_  He collapses back onto the bed, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and Dean can’t help but let out a chuckle of his own at the sight. Because he looks fucking ridiculous. Cock out and slowly going soft against his thigh, fully dressed from the waist up, miles of long, bare legs all bent up and sprawled across the bed. _Their_ bed.

Dean’s already got the entirety of his clothes off and in a pile on the floor before Sam’s eyes even flutter open, tracking him as he slinks over to help. “Anyone ever tell you this might not be your best look?” Dean teases fondly, carefully unclipping the sling so he can get at the shirt underneath.

“What?” Sam tosses back sleepily. “No pants? ‘Cause I think my brother’s at fault for that one.”

He rolls his eyes, but manages to slip off the remainder of Sam’s shirts with minimal cringing or hisses of pain. The Mark is quiet now. Crushed down and smothered, so soon after the cure. Even better now that it’s been somewhat sated—a fuck almost as good as a fight. Carnal is as carnal does. Barely even a whisper of violence compared to how it’s been the last six weeks.  _The last six months._  He might actually be able to sleep tonight.

Dean flicks the light off and slides into bed with his brother, Sam propped up against him—bad shoulder up against his chest to take the weight off it. But it’s good. It’s good because Dean can wrap around him from behind. Can turn his head into Sam’s hair and breathe him in. Familiar, comforting weight in his arms. Way it should be. _God, how he’s missed this._  A hint of striped moonlight peeks in through the venetian blinds, leaving a striation of shadows fanned out across Sam’s chest. Low flash of neon yellow from the sign outside every ten seconds or so. Ah, the charming ambiance of a crappy motel room. The sight’s more familiar than rock salt and burning graves. No place like home. 

Dean lets out an unexpectedly contented sigh and brings a hand up to idly tug at a lock of his brother’s hideous new haircut. “Y’know,” he says, tone affectionately mocking. “Only unfinished business left is what we’re gonna do about this.”

“Think I’m gonna try and grow it out,” Sam admits, cheeks burning just slightly pink. Then he melts back into Dean’s embrace with a rueful sound. “Let you do it next time.”

He hums and drops his hand back onto Sam’s torso. “Yeah, think that might be best.”

His brother lets out a quiet snort, tilting his head back against Dean’s shoulder as he smiles up at him. “You’re one to talk though, huh?”

“God, I fucking hate it,” Dean gripes, scrubbing a hand over his own head. “Makes me look like I’m sixteen.”

Sam grins and reaches up to trail his fingers through it. Probably likes it, the hippie. And it does feel good, Dean has to admit, the long fingers massaging against his scalp. Makes sense why his brother’s always so cat-in-heat about having his tugged at. “You want me to cut it?” Sam asks eventually, after he’s done playing with it. Warm and sleepy and affectionate.

“Yeah.” Dean thinks he’s got the right razor attachment in his bag. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He makes one last sweep over the room, checking to make sure Sam really did manage to clear all the glass away, and his eyes catch on that ridiculously too-small chair, buttressed up against the far corner of the mattress. Shoved aside during their frantic scramble for the wall.

Dean frowns and nudges at his brother’s side. “Hey man, can I ask you something?” Sam makes a faint, affirmative noise, probably halfway to unconsciousness already. “What was with the tiny chair?”

Sam stiffens in his arms, embarrassment yanking him right back into the waking world. “Um,” he says, shifting awkwardly in his hold. “I wasn’t sure if I should be sitting on the bed when you got back out of the bathroom.” He fiddles with the edge of the blanket for a few seconds, tugging at a loose thread. “Thought it might be kinda presumptuous.”

Dean laughs out loud at the ridiculous reasoning. Sam could out-prude a virgin. Which is actually kind of weirdly hot, considering the way he usually rockets from zero to sixty. Monk to tomcat in five seconds flat. Dean grins and tangles their legs together under the covers. “Well, we certainly wouldn’t want to be _presumptuous_.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The ends of his brother’s shower-damp hair tickling against his face are only slightly more annoying than his simultaneous whining. “Y’know, I _can_ do this on my own,” Sam gripes, intent on being a pissy little bitch even when Dean is going out of his way to help him get his sling on. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time?”

Dean just ignores him, buckling the clip in the back and smoothing his hands over Sam’s sides to make sure no cloth is tangled up in the fasteners. This whole sprain thing is turning out to be one big, fucking hassle. In more ways than one. The sleeping arrangements last night were awkward, at best. He could barely scratch his ass without jostling Sam’s bad arm, and most of the evening was spent uncomfortably shifting and grumbling as they tried to find (and _stay_ in) a position that wasn’t painful for at least one of them. Romantic gestures aside, Dean’s getting two queens from now on until his brother’s in fighting shape again. Sam can just deal.

“How bad is it?” he asks, adjusting the last strap and dropping a quick massage to the top of his shoulder.

Sam huffs out a short breath. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Sure.”

“ _Three_.” He twists his head to level Dean with a look. “This is our version of a paper cut and you know it. So stop with the overcompensating shit, it’s annoying.”

Dean makes a face and flicks a fingernail between his brother’s shoulder blades. Cheating a little to the left, just to be safe. “Screw you, _‘overcompensating’_ ,” he mutters. “See if I help you out the next time you start complaining.”

Some sort of loud, obnoxious bird finds itself a good roosting spot right outside their window and starts screeching out a series of grating calls, one after another. Probably in cahoots with his brother. Doing its best to be an irritating little shit. Dean strides over to shut it up— _You could_ _kill it. Easy as pie. Shut it up for good. Crash your fist right through the window. Blood and glass. Slice up those knuckles nice and sticky and wet. Grab the thing’s neck and wring it out until it **crunches**_ —and thumps a fist against the glass. Sending the fucker away with a squawk and a flutter of heavy wings. Sam is staring at him when he looks back up.

“What?” he says tensely.

“What about you?” his brother asks quietly.

Dean walks back over to his duffel. Grabs his jeans from last night and shoves them into the bag. “What about me, what?”

Sam tilts his head slightly, lifting his eyebrows in a not-so-subtle reference to the swoop of red peeking out from Dean’s sleeve. “I’m not the only one here with a messed-up arm, dude.”

He lets out a scoff as he packs. “Yeah, but I can still pitch with mine. What’s _your_ strikeout average?”

“Dean, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean snits, zipping his duffel closed with a little more force than he needs to. “You’re also worrying about nothing.”

Sam snorts. Dean’s back is to him, but if he were a betting man, he’d count on an overdramatic eye roll as well. “Right,” he says sarcastically. _“Nothing_.”

“Oh, _what?”_  He turns around to face his brother, yanking his sleeve up until the Mark is fully visible. “You wanna slap a Band-Aid on this? Kiss it better?” Dean tugs his shirt back in place with a scowl. “ _Newsflash_ , Sam,” he spits. “Talking about the damn thing ain’t gonna get rid of it any faster.”

Sam sets his jaw. Fire in his eyes. “But it could help. How would you know?”

“How would _you_ know?” Dean finally snaps, end of his very short tether. It’s _always_ short nowadays. Hissing away like the wick on a stick of dynamite. “’Cause you don’t know what this is like, Sam. Having this—this _thing_ itching at you all day long. This darkness eating away at you at all hours. Scraping at your fucking brain.” He jams a finger to his temple, sharp twist of his wrist. “Making you want to do things.  _Terrible_ things. But you gotta make the best of it because it’s a goddamn _part_ of you. Like a fucking disease, only you can’t rip it out and you can’t scrub it clean—” Dean cuts off with a short intake of breath once the stupidity of his own words catches up with him. Because he realizes exactly where he’s heard them before.

“Yeah,” Sam says quietly, barely a whisper. “What would I know about that?” It’s bright in the room. Sun slanting in past the curtains. Middle of the goddamn day because they’d wanted a late check-out, and suddenly, it’s far too cheery for this conversation. 

“…I killed a woman once.”

His brother just says it flat. Lays it right out there in the sunny, dead air of their motel room. No other noise than their hushed breathing and the faint, faraway sounds of cars from the highway outside. Only movement is the dust motes dancing along the beams of light from the window. Dean almost wishes for the bird back. “I mean, she—it was a demon,” Sam continues lifelessly. “Inside of her. Real nasty piece of work. But I could have saved her.” He flexes the fingers of his right hand, resting in the sling. Scrutinizes the lines of his palm. “Could have exorcised the thing right out of her. Even could have done it the old-fashioned way. I had enough time.” Something in his brother’s face crumbles, chips away at his stoic façade. “She was a nurse. She was married. I could have saved her and she could have gone right back to her life. But I didn’t.  _Ruby—_ ” he starts, looking for a place to put the blame, then thinks better of it. “I killed her. Slit her throat and drank her blood. _All_ of it. I needed all of it. For _Lilith_.” Sam breaks off with a pained chuckle. “And look how well that turned out. All of that, I did it for nothing.” Eyes back on his, flashing with hurt. “So you wanna talk about terrible things?” he asks thickly. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to fight against darkness that’s inside of you?”

Dean doesn’t exactly know what to do with the new information. Vacillates between detached apathy and outright indignation—and lands somewhere around muted understanding. “Still?” he asks quietly.

Sam hangs his head with a remorseful sigh. “Yeah.   _Still_ ,” he admits dully. “I mean, it’s not like back when it was _bad_ , you know?” Weak attempt at a smile. He doesn’t even look up. “Not even close. And I can—it’s easier to ignore now. Hell, I can go knife-deep into ten of Crowley’s redshirts and not even let it faze me. Don’t even think about it most days, but…” His brother chokes on the last word, and Dean’s stomach ties itself up in knots. “I dunno. Sometimes. Sometimes I’ll have a dream, or a nightmare, and I’ll remember. I mean I _wouldn’t_.” Sam jerks his head back up, terrified, _desperate_ for Dean to believe him. “Not _ever_. But I’ll just think about it, y’know?” He twists his forehead up, aching for absolution. “Not a lot, just…every once in a while.”

It’s been so goddamn long. Maybe absolution is something that Dean can do. The Mark is muted, at least—relatively speaking. Maybe Sam can absolve him too. “How do you stop yourself from slipping?” he asks quietly.

His brother lets out a broken sigh at the complicated question. “You just—” he waves his hand around, trying to catch the ephemeral concept, “ _don’t_ ,” he finishes anticlimactically. “It’s like AA or something, I dunno. Every single day could potentially be the day you do something really fucking stupid, so you just…don’t. And then you keep doing that. Every day. Forever.”

“Awesome,” Dean grumbles, thumping back to sit on the bed. Hands between his knees.

“Yeah, it ain’t exactly _fun_.” Sam tosses him a bittersweet smile. “Better than the alternative though.” He takes a hesitant step over toward Dean, then another. Comes to a stop right at his feet, crouching down so they’re at eye-level. “And it’s not gonna be like it was before,” his brother says gently. “These last few weeks.” Ghost of a grin that Dean can’t tear his eyes from. “I got you back, man.” Sam says it like he’s just won the Powerball. All precious disbelief and breathy wonder.  _Yeah, right_. Dean’s the shittiest consolation prize of all time. “I’m gonna help you. It’s gonna be so much better, Dean. Now that you’re _you_ again. Now that you care.”

If Dean couldn’t feel his heart pounding against the inside of his chest, he’d think it had stopped. “You think I didn’t _care?”_  The question comes out desperately thin, like there isn’t enough air in his lungs.

“Well, yeah,” Sam says, not quite following. Then he must catch sight of Dean’s expression because he quickly rushes to reassure him. “It’s okay though. It wasn’t you. I’m not upset or anything.” A gentle hand on his knee, fingers curling warm against the inseam. “I know it didn’t count. You didn’t mean it.”

Dean lets out a horrifying excuse for a laugh. Dry and reedy as a death rattle. Sam flinches back at the sound like he’s been burned. “You think I didn’t—?” Dean drops his head into his hands, digs his fingers into his temples and claws at his own skin. “Sam,” he spits, barely a whisper. “I cared so much I was gonna _kill_ you.” It’s the first time either of them has said it out loud. Because they’re cowards. Can’t even lay it out like Cas did. Matter of fact—a joke, even. ‘Cause they’re stupid, fucking cowards. Like if they don’t say it, then it didn’t happen. But it happened. It fucking _happened._

“Dean.”

“Shut up, Sam,” he snaps. Then wrenches his eyes up, forces his brother to listen. “I tried to kill you.”

Sam sets his jaw and lifts his chin, stubborn sheen of tears in his eyes at Dean’s words. Brave and beautiful and so fucking stupid. If he knew what was good for him, Dean would be dead already. He needs to kill Dean before Dean gets at him first. “That wasn’t you,” Sam says roughly.

“Oh, it was _me_ ,” Dean counters, self-loathing leaking from his very pores. “It was me in every fucking way that counted.”

“Stop it,” his brother chides. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I thought you were dead for half a day.” The words come slipping past his lips like coiled snakes. “Did you know that? I thought that Cole guy had slit your throat or put a bullet between your eyes. And I wanted to take him apart, piece by piece, for it. Not for what he almost did to you, Sam. But just because _I_ couldn’t do it first.” Dean reaches a hand out to stroke his thumb along his brother’s neck. Eyes cold as ice. “Because I was gonna be the one to pull that last breath out of your lungs.” Sam jerks away from his touch, rising to his feet, and Dean follows. Needing him to hear this. Needing to spit up all the poison inside him so Sam can know. So Sam can finally know and he can _run_. “I gave you an out, Sam,” he says darkly, leaning in close. Too close. Fingers tangled up in the front of his brother’s shirt. “If you’d have taken it, I would’ve left you alone. I would have let you be forever. But you had to come after me.”

“Of _course_ I came after you,” Sam snarls, pushing back with his good hand. Fighting for ground. Not enough to shake Dean off. “That’s what we fucking do. Or did you forget the time you became an absolute _asshole_ after Purgatory? ‘Cause you keep flipping, Dean, and you need to make up your goddamn _mind_.”

Dean clenches his fist, pulls Sam in tighter. “You came after me and all bets were off. You lifted the starting gate on the one thing, the _only_ thing, I was trying to stop myself from doing.” The sickening truth weighs heavy on his shoulders as Dean stares into the abyss of his own psyche. Honest with himself for the first time in days. For the first time since he’d woken up shackled to that chair in their dungeon. “You wanna hear a secret, Sammy?” he asks bitterly. Words catching on his tongue like barbs. “I didn’t hurt any civilians while I was demonized. Not really. Not for keeps. I didn’t hurt anyone else, because the _only_ person I wanted to ruin was _you_.”

Sam blinks. Eyes wide and wet. Oh, so _that_ gets his attention. “What?” he breathes.

All of the swirling shame and hatred bubbles up inside him and Dean can’t hold it back anymore. Can’t play at being calm any longer. “You were everywhere, Sam!” he snarls in his brother’s face. “ _Everywhere_. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even turn my head without seeing you, feeling you, remembering every little tiny thing about you.” Dean releases his fist and shoves Sam away. _Hard_. Sends him stumbling as he tries to find his bearings. “And it drove me _crazy_ ,” he hisses. “Even when you weren’t there, even when I thought you were leaving well enough alone, I still couldn’t get you out of my goddamn mind! Not for one fucking second! And I wanted to _kill_ you for it!” Dean roars. The most appalling confession he can come up with. _Bless me, Father, for I have sinned._  But there’s no salvation to be had. Not for _this_. Dean grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, wracked with guilt. “I wanted to kill you just so it would stop.”

“You could have just come home, Dean.” Sam steps closer in again.  _Closer_ to the monster in the room. Stupid fucking idiot. “You could have just come back to me.”

“I was a _demon_ , Sam,” Dean growls, low in his throat.

“I wouldn’t have cared!” his brother shouts.

“Yes, you would have! You would have tried to cure me. Which is a _good_ thing. _Fuck_ ,” he spits, running a hand through his too-long hair. “But I didn’t want that. Not when I was—” He violently flings an arm out to finish the thought.

Sam sucks in a deep breath and gets that familiar look in his eye, letting his brain race away at Dean’s admission. Desperately trying to catch him in a lie. Apparently Dean’s gonna have to try harder to get the point through his brother’s thick skull. “But you—you…came after me,” he says. Diplomatic way of putting it. Clearly, he doesn’t want to say the actual words any more than Dean does. “If you still felt…then why would you—?”

“You think I didn’t still _want_ you?” Dean sneers, his voice as cruel as he can make it. “You think I could ever stop wanting you? You think I wasn’t gonna fuck you _afterwards?”_  He cages his brother back against the bright green walls. “After I’d already fucking _bashed_ your head in? Dead eyes and bleeding out with your _brain_ _smeared against the wall?_  ‘Cause that’s what I was gonna do, Sam. That was the plan!” Dean leans in close enough that Sam can’t miss a single word. “I was hard just thinking about it,” he hisses. “The whole goddamn time _._  Hard as a fucking rock. Every step I took down that hallway. At just the thought of it.”

Sam swallows hard. Voice like his throat’s been shredded. “It wasn’t you.”

Dean _seethes_ at Sam’s familiar bull-headed idiocy. Stubborn as a fucking mule. Walking right up to his doom when all Dean’s trying to do is save him. Push him away so he can save him. “Oh, so you need me to go into detail?” He snakes a hand out, iron grip around his brother’s jaw. Clenches down _hard_ , just to make his point. “Your mouth would’ve been slack afterwards,” Dean says, running a harsh thumb across his bottom lip. “Thought about that a lot actually. Not as much suction as I’d like, of course. Hell, you’d know that better than anyone. But I figured it was smarter to wait to fuck your skull until it couldn’t bite down anymore.”

Sam holds firm, despite the hurtful words. Meeting Dean’s stare with a steady one of his own. Refusing to back down, like the obstinate fucker he is.  _Fine_. Time to bring out the big guns, then.

“The main event would’ve been easier too,” Dean continues. Last nail in the coffin. Final—like a eulogy. “No need to worry about lube. No annoying, time-consuming prep. Right, Sammy?” He bores his gaze into Sam’s. Making sure there isn’t even a _chance_ of him misunderstanding. “Could have just forced myself right in. And if I did it fast enough, if your body was still warm, then maybe those last dregs of blood would’ve eased the way.” Sam’s breath hitches, eyes brimming with moisture at the truly _horrendous_ things he’s saying. “I’d have ripped you apart without batting an eye,” Dean says lowly. And it’s the truth. He’s telling the goddamn truth. “Done it the same way even if you were still breathing.”

“Stop it,” Sam whispers, voice thick with tears.

“Done it just like Lucifer did. Isn’t that right? No better than fucking _Satan_. All those things I promised myself that I’d never do to you. Not like him.” Dean chokes on his own words, eyes burning hot at the corners. “Well, I was gonna do every single one. I was gonna _enjoy_ myself.”

Sam’s crying for real now, tears spilling over and leaving meandering tracks down his cheeks. “Dean, _stop_ it.”

He doesn’t. Sam needs to know. He needs to know so he can _get away_. “Of course, after I tore you up like that, it wouldn’t have been a tight fit for much longer. Only one good go in the ass, probably. I’d have found other places then.” He shoves Sam hard against the wall. “ _Made_ other places. Do you _understand_ me? I would have cut and torn and gutted and _fucked_ every goddamn inch of your motherfucking corpse I could get my hands on!”

_“Stop it!”_

I probably would’ve kept you around for weeks, Sam! Maybe even longer than that! I would’ve done every horrible, monstrous thing to you that I could think up _because I loved you so fucking **much** I couldn’t stand for you to be alive even one more **goddamn** **second!** ”_

The honesty of Dean’s admission rips through him like white-hot metal, tearing out his guts until he’s only got a few, frantic seconds to make it to the bathroom before he’s puking up his earlier breakfast.  _Bye-bye, western omelet._  His tears, dripping like acid into the toilet bowl. Acid dripping from his lips. Stomach heaving as his body tries to spew up more bile. A thin dribble makes it out— _it’s all there is, he’s barely eaten for six weeks, even counting the sporadic binging_ —and Dean spits as hard as he can to clear the taste.

He expects muffled sobs. He expects the hurried sounds of packing. He expects to hear the door open and then slam shut again, silence in its wake. Forever.

…He doesn’t expect a single, strong arm to wind its way around his chest. He doesn’t expect Sam’s warm body against his back, his face wet where it presses up against Dean’s shirts. “ _Don’t_.” Dean tries to warn his brother away, but his voice is scoured gritty from all the shouting. He sounds like a dying animal. “Sammy, don’t _touch_ me.”

“It wasn’t you,” Sam whispers against his spine.

Dean’s shoulders convulse, and another wave of tears fall to mix in with the acid already swirling in the bowl. “Why won’t you leave?” he rasps out. “What’s _wrong_ with you? Why won’t you just fucking _leave_ me?”

A long silence. It’s too hot in here. Too stuffy. Wyoming in fucking August. They should’ve done this at night. Would’ve felt more right. Darkness is for dark things. “Do you want me to go?” Sam asks eventually.

And it’s like a blade slipping between his ribs. “’Course I don’t want you to go,” Dean croaks wetly. “Stupidest question I ever heard.”

“I love you,” Sam says. No over-emotional schmaltz, just a matter of fact. The absolute truth.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he whispers.

“I do.”

“You fucking _can’t!”_  Dean snarls.

But Sam just makes soft shushing noises against the spread of his back until he calms down. He holds him through the rest of his stomach spasms. Sweeps his good hand over Dean’s sides until the heaving finally stops. When he’s done, Sam flushes the toilet for him, carefully leans him up against the wall, and then hands him a washcloth that’s seen better days so he can wipe his face clean. Goddamn saint. Too good for a piece of work like him. But that’s not news. His brother’s always been too good for him. Sam should run. He needs to run as far away as he can get and never look back. But instead, he just gets right back down onto the grimy bathroom floor beside him, right in his space, and deliberately curls up across his lap, good shoulder propped against Dean’s and head tucked into the bend of his neck. Like he’s someone that can be forgiven. Like he’s _human_.

“Sammy,” he says roughly.

“ _Ssh_.” His brother doesn’t say another word for a long while. He just wraps his arm around Dean’s lower back and slumps against his chest. Both of them breathing together. Both of them waiting for the sporadic gasps to stop hitching through Dean’s frame.

He tentatively reaches up with his hands once he thinks Sam won’t bolt—and he doesn’t, he _doesn’t, because he’s a goddamn martyr and he’s gonna get himself killed_ —then slowly, gingerly wraps his arms around his brother’s back, clinging as tight as he can. Like a goddamn child. Head resting down against Sam’s own as he lets the last few tears make their way down his face to disappear into his brother’s hair.  _“Sammy—”_

“Where are we going next?”

Dean is completely blindsided by the unexpected question. “What?”

Sam closes his eyes and lets out a breathy sigh against his neck. “On our vacation,” he says softly. Like they’re back to being regular fucking people. Like that’s something that can even happen. “Thanks to you, we’ve seen the glorious sights that Laramie, Wyoming has to offer. So, where to next?”

“Our vacation,” Dean repeats dumbly. “Right.” Seems like years ago he was fucking Sam against the wall. Holding him close in their bed. Holding him in his arms, just like this. Dean takes a breath, then lets it out in a bitter scoff. “Some honeymoon, huh?”

There’s another long moment of quiet. “Is that what this is?” Sam asks carefully. Dean suddenly freezes at being caught out, his heart seizing up in his chest at the loaded question. Not right now. He can’t do this right now. Not on top of everything else. “ _Ssh,_ ” Sam urges again, caring and hushed, right at the height of his panic. Soothing the terrified tension out of his body. “Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have asked. It doesn’t matter.” He spreads his left hand over Dean’s back and steers them back on course. “Where are we going next, Dean?”

That’s it. Focus on the question. Simple fucking question. Just answer it. “Out of the city,” Dean rasps. “Toward the mountains. Wanna take you up to the base of the Tetons. See the river.”

“That sounds nice.” He can feel Sam’s smile against his skin. “Then what?”

The itinerary. Remember the itinerary. He’d had one. Pieced it together in his head. What was next? “Idaho. Shoshone Falls.”

“Yeah?” Sam prompts. Doing an exceptional impression of someone who’s actually interested in the minutiae of their little, impromptu road trip.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Think you’d like it, Sammy. They say it’s pretty.” It’ll be a hike, but Sam likes those. He wanted to do something that Sam would like. Anything.  _Anything_ that Sam would like. “Then, um… Then we could head over to Oregon,” he continues, voice echoing hoarse against the salmon tiles. “Stop by Portland.”

That one gets a real reaction. “Really?” Sam asks. A hint of actual excitement in his words.

It fills Dean’s heart like sunshine. “Yeah, get you some of those donuts you like. And we can…we can stay as long as you want.”

Sam tucks his face even further into his shoulder, squeezes his good arm around his waist in thanks. “And then what?” he asks, throaty and somewhat muffled by Dean’s shirt.

“Washington. Pine Lake.” He drops a lingering kiss onto the crown of his brother’s head. Only breathing again when Sam doesn’t flinch away from his touch. “Figured we could have some beers,” he says shakily, air leaving his lungs in little, broken hitches. “Watch the water for a bit. Just relax, you know?”

Dean holds his brother close and graciously ignores the telltale patch of moisture slowly spreading out across the fabric of his collar. “Sounds perfect,” Sam whispers thickly. And it does. It really, _really_ does.

Dean closes his eyes and presses his face into his brother’s hair. Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon, then Washington. That’s the plan. Get in the car and just fucking _drive_. Anywhere. Anywhere as long as it’s not Kansas. They’ve got a month, at least. Just for them. A full thirty days or so of nothing but whatever the hell they feel like doing. They can take in the sights. Act like the actual fucking tourists they never get to be. That should be enough time. Wyoming, Idaho, Oregon, and then Washington. He’ll be good by Washington. Dean clings tighter to the precious body in his arms.

 _They’ll_ be good by Washington.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Scorpions' "Holiday"


End file.
